“This will never do,” she said, when for the third time he had absented himself from her weekly receptions. “You will make yourself unpopular if you persist in holding yourself aloof socially from the people. Besides, it isn’t manly, Lionel; you are wearing your heart on your sleeve.”
So he promised to amend his ways; and the study saw less of him again; and joining more in the social life of the town, a little of his old buoyancy returned. But there always remained a sore place in his heart, only to be temporarily relieved by the balm of her precious letters. They arrived with every mail—those dear messages from his beloved.
He had been back a full week before he could bring himself to visit his new house. The operations of the builders and decorators had been suspended during his stay in Jerusalem, and he had not yet given the order for them to resume their work. Making a sudden decision one morning, however, he walked quietly up the avenue of palm-trees, and unlocked the great oaken doors at the entrance to the hall. The house was, as he had anticipated, totally deserted, and his steps echoed and re-echoed drearily on the stone floor. Passing through the wonderful atrium, whose fame had already reached from one end of Syria to the other, he entered the boudoir, and removing the holland covering, sat down on one of the dainty chairs. What a hideous, ghastly mockery the whole place appeared! how it seemed to rise up and taunt him with its emptiness, with its bright but hollow splendour! He glanced about him with a shudder, and rested his head wearily on his hand. The decorations, to which he had given so much thought—for Patricia; the exquisite frescoes painted by an eminent Jewish artist—for Patricia; the beautifully carved bureau with its cunning design—for Patricia; the hangings of vieux rose—Patricia’s favourite hue; the little oil-painting of the Thames—Patricia’s own picture. All for Patricia, the one woman in the world to whom it was a joy to render homage; and she had been snatched from him by the crass stupidity of his people, by the ignorant prejudice of a stubborn race! Oh, the foolishness of men, to bow down to the fanatical ceremonialism of dogma and creed, and turn away from the purest of all passions—conjugal love! Rising, he threw open the windows, and with bent head, paced the room; then espying the flutter of a white gown amid the myrtle bushes in the avenue, paused in silent wonder. How came a woman in the grounds—his grounds—not knowing that he was there?
He closed the window, and went forth to investigate, almost inclined to believe that he was the victim of an illusion. But no; for as he appeared beneath the portico, the figure approached and sauntered leisurely towards him. For one moment his heart stood still, a wild hypothesis taking possession of his brain. Patricia in some mysterious way had come back to him, either in the flesh, or by the projection of her astral body—he had heard and read of such things. Thought telepathy, spiritualism—he had never believed in either, yet he knew by hearsay that the most wonderful phenomena had actually occurred; and if to other people, why not to himself? But the fantastic idea born of his ardent longing was suddenly doomed to disappointment; the figure proved to be not Patricia, but merely that of Zillah Lorm.
“I wondered if you were here,” she said sweetly, as he advanced to meet her. “Do you know, I come here every day, just for a walk—the little side gate is always open. But I have never been inside the house, although I have heard so much about it. Would you not like to show it to me? We have a good opportunity now.”
He had never felt more disinclined to play the part of showman, but knowing that she was really eager to go over the place, he could not well refuse. Admitting her by the principal entrance, he allowed her to wander through the rooms at her own sweet will, and listened to her enthusiastic observations with no pleasure, and perhaps a little pain. Yielding to a feeling he could not describe, he passed over the door of the boudoir; but Zillah was quick enough to notice his hesitation, and inexorably demanded a view.
“What is it, Lionel?” she asked playfully. “Bluebeard’s chamber, or the sanctum sanctorum?”
He threw open the door, and stood back for her to enter.
“Neither,” he answered quietly. “It is the room which was to have been my wife’s boudoir.”
“Oh!” She threw him a glance of somewhat steely commiseration, and proceeded to look about her with cold criticism. Montella went to the window, his eyes dreamily scanning the distant mountain ranges of Galilee. He wanted to be blind and deaf for a few minutes, until his visitor had concluded her examination of the room. He did not want to hear her careless remarks; they affected him like so many knife thrusts.